Tourniquet
by Renata Swift
Summary: She looks toward the statue, and begins to make her way toward it, slowly but steadily. The angel gasps softly as her hand begins to burn, not unlike her heart. And as she walks away, she wonders if she was only there to stop the bleeding.


**_Hi again! Well, exams are coming to an end, and I __thought I'd take a break from studying to type this fic out. It's been languishing in my writing journal forever. As with most of my fics, this one was thought of and written in school (when I probably should've been listening to my teachers...). It is dedicated to __Wyandotte Bloduedd, who's been doing a lot of betareading for me recently. Thanks for all your patience, Mrs. C - I owe you big-time!  
_**

_Disclaimer: Narnia and all related characters belong to CS Lewis. The song 'Almost Lover' belongs to the artist A Fine Frenzy._

**_

* * *

_**

**Tourniquet**

**

* * *

**

_Goodbye my almost lover  
Goodbye my hopeless dream  
I'm trying not to think about you  
Can't you just let me be  
So long my luckless romance  
My back is turned on you  
Should have known you'd bring me heartache  
Almost lovers always do_

_**Almost Lover, **_**A Fine Frenzy

* * *

**

The moon is out, and the leaves rustle in the wind. The trees are not swaying, and the fountain is not bubbling. A large wooden door creaks open somewhere in the castle, and he turns his head around sharply, wary of an approaching audience to his midnight escapade. Assured that he is still alone, he turns back to the statue to gaze forlornly at the beautifully sculpted face, wishing with all his heart that it was more than just stone.

Her hair has been crafted with great care, each and every strand visible to the naked eye as it flies in an unfelt wind. She holds a bow and arrow in her small hands, aiming fiercely at an invisible target in an invisible battle, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. Her skirt gently flying behind her, she stands in the centre of the garden, guarding it with her imposing presence.

Yet her eyes show, unmistakably, a sadness meant to be hidden from the world, though her jaw is firm and her lips are drawn in the taut grimace of someone concentrating very hard to achieve some goal.

He feels her pain as it fills up his heart, because it is his to feel; he shares her anguish as it consumes his nights, for he feels the same, and he grieves for what could have been, just as he hoped she did. He looks up at the heavens in anguish to a sky brilliantly dotted with stars that could easily be mistaken for diamonds, and a solitary tear slides down his sallow cheek. Sadness gives way to heartbreak in the moonlight, and he shakes uncontrollably, not wishing to see her face anymore, hoping to forget everything that she had been for him, and what they could have had together.

He turns around to go back into the castle, and sees an angel standing behind him at the large wooden doors – scared, lonely, frightened and puzzled.

"What are you doing?" she asks softly and timidly, caressing her left arm with her one free hand. The hurt in her eyes is hidden by amazement. A suffocating silence ensues.

"Nothing, nothing," he says hurriedly, wiping away the tears on his face, hoping that they were unseen in the darkness. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you." He stares long and hard at the woman's face. The candle in her left hand illuminates her face in a haunting, unearthly glow. The moon retreats behind a curtain of clouds, unsure of whether she should continue watching the scene play out beneath her. The woman nods numbly.

He takes a few slow steps towards her, and reassuringly kisses her on one cheek. In the darkness that envelops them, both faces are flushed red. He slips one hand around her waist, as though with one gesture, all their problems will be fixed. He opens the large oak doors, but she remains firmly rooted to the ground where she stands, just like the woman frozen in stone before her. In a few seconds, his steps fade away behind her.

She looks toward the statue, and begins to make her way toward it, slowly but steadily. The solitary candle in her hand weakly illuminates what the moon had so brilliantly only minutes ago. Its wax drips on to her pale white skin, burning it with each drop. Her other hand reaches out towards the rough stone, slowly weathered away by harsh rains and fierce winds. She pays no attention to the three other ones that stand silently beside the first. She touches the frozen hair with the same lost and confused expression that is mirrored by the statue standing before her.

"I wish I hadn't met him," she whispers fiercely, unable to find any tears to shed. "Perhaps then both of us would be where we want to now, just the way we dream. I suppose in that way, you and I, we aren't so different." She looks up at the sky, where her brothers, sisters, cousins and her entire family look on, saddened by her sorrowful plight. "Maybe we both should have fought for what we truly wanted. It would have been a long and hard fight, but the Lion is both kind and merciful."

Her mother peeks out from behind her gauzy veil to comfort her daughter in her time of need, illuminating the land once again, but the woman turns away. "I don't need you," she says, trying to fool herself. "Go away, Mother. I don't need you anymore. Leave me be." The moon sighs silently, and hides once more.

The woman sits down at the foot of the statue, bitter and angry. The leaves rustle again, and the music of the cicadas and the crickets starts once again. Suddenly, a searing pain soars through her hand.

The angel gasps softly as her hand begins to burn, not unlike her heart. She looks down to her hand to see that the wax has coagulated on her palm, singeing her soft hand. She gets up, looks at the grieving sky once more, and turns towards the door.

As she walks away, she wonders if she was only there to stop the bleeding.

A lion roars in the distance.

* * *

Somewhere in North London, a young woman sits up with a jolt in her bed, his soft touch still lingering on her cheek. Her tears refuse to stop falling, and she sobs silently in the stifling heat of the night, where the tears resonate in the small room.

Her sheets are soaked in sweat, and her eyebrows are furrowed. She hugs her pillow tightly, telling herself to grow up, that all she had gone through was nothing more than a dream, a trick that her mind is playing on her. Still, the candlelight from her dreams haunts her, reminding her that it had all been real once.

Her sister laughs merrily in her sleep at her own dream, and turns over. Somewhere in the neighborhood, an owl hoots, and the moon comes out from behind the clouds. No one notices anything.

* * *

_**Reviews would be greatly appreciated - both positive and negative. Thanks for reading!**_


End file.
